


Sleeping Dogs Lie

by helens78



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Identity confusion, M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, One of My Favorites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-04
Updated: 2005-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Duncan wakes up earlier than Methos, some leftover scattered memories from Kronos make their way into his fantasies.  Duncan is not okay with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping Dogs Lie

**Author's Note:**

> For MMoM. (Apparently in 2005 I was bound and determined to write for it, a feat I don't believe I accomplished before or since.)

_He's not awake yet._

That's the first thing Mac realizes when he blinks his eyes open and looks over at Methos. He'll probably wake up the minute Mac gets out of bed, and maybe he'll wake up if Mac moves too much, but just now he's not awake and Mac has time to let his thoughts wander.

It's a typical morning. Mac's hard. He doesn't feel like waking Methos up yet; he's not awake enough for sex. But he's awake enough to jerk off.

Slow stroke, more palm than fingers, up the length of his cock. Nice. Easy. Even pressure. Mac closes his eyes and exhales softly. _Don't wake him._

His thoughts drift; old lovers come to mind, but none of them are as intriguing as the man beside him. When he's sleepy and it's all about hand on cock, Methos's air of mystery is less irritating and more arousing.

_What was it like?_

That's the question that keeps him up at night.

His rhythm's good now, steady, just the way he likes it. There might have been a squeeze and a jerk as his thoughts tumbled into _what was it like?_, but he's going to pretend it didn't happen. _Think of something else. Something else, come on._

But there is nothing else. Not now that he's going, hand on cock and thoughts on Death. What was it like? What was it like to ride with the Horsemen and live that way for hundreds -- thousands -- of years? Why did he change? Was it time, or distance, or fear? Was it a matter of survival? Mac doubts he'll ever know.

Faster now. Tighter grip. Not the way he likes it, usually, but the roughness feels good and he's not about to stop.

Methos thinks he's a boy scout. Methos doesn't think Mac could possibly understand the freedom, the _power_, how attractive that could feel and why Methos found Kronos so damnably seductive. Methos should know better. Mac understands more than he lets on. He has ghosts of feelings that show him what it was like to _hurt_ Methos, push him past death itself looking to satisfy a mutual addiction.

His palm's gone sweaty, but it's not enough to slicken the strokes. The drag of skin against skin is starting to make his cock feel raw. He'll be sore after this. It doesn't matter. It won't last long.

Sometimes, when the night's quiet and it's just the two of them alone in the loft, Mac looks across the room and feels an urge to _take him_, roll Methos off the couch and onto the floor and show him he remembers. It's a fantasy Mac's never indulged. Hell, it's one he's never even played out completely. Pinned to the ground, a shove, a soft cry of protest, and Mac growling out _I remember, brother._

The imagined words stop him every time. He can't remember. _Doesn't_ remember. Those aren't his memories. He's never been that man.

If he weren't afraid of waking Methos his hips would be pumping now, his knees bent so he could drive his cock up into his hand as hard as he's shoving his hand down against it. He wants. _Wants._ So much. He's ready, needs it, wants to come hurting.

Kronos loved to come hurting. Even when he was alone he never took things easy. He loved it rough, loved taking his pleasure through pain whenever possible. It could be his own pain; it could be someone else's. It didn't matter which. He loved wincing through orgasm, loved screaming through it even more, and top or bottom made little difference as long as he was getting what he wanted...

Mac barely blunts the growl, turning his head, biting his upper arm and leaving marks. His eyes squeeze shut, hand tightens, a warm pulse of come drips down his fingers. He holds his breath a while, only exhaling when he's sure he can do it quietly.

He looks over at Methos again. Still asleep. _Good._ Mac turns to the nightstand and grabs a towel, drying his hand, cleaning up his cock. By the time he's done, the bitemark on his arm is gone.

Methos rolls over and throws an arm over Mac's chest, nuzzling into his shoulder. Mac squirms, slides his arm around Methos and pulls him closer.

It would be so easy. A few minutes to rest and he could be ready all over again. He could roll Methos over, shove his face into his pillow, take him with spit and sweat, listen to Methos grunt and curse, feel him struggle--

_I never want him to know I even thought about that._

He kisses Methos's forehead and closes his eyes. If he's lucky, he'll get another hour or two of sleep.

_-end-_


End file.
